June 21, 2016 § Leave a comment
Speak not to us the deeds of men
Who come and go and come again.
Such deeds are naught but folly all
Which rise ‘pon pride and promptly fall.
When men are gone, just scattered dust
We’ll count spring’s green and autumn’s rust
Till ink doth dry on Aeon’s pen.
Speak not to us the deeds of men.